Control (Songs of Submission #4)(4)

Her expression told me I was right. Her face was still, disentangled from the drama surrounding my adventures with a rich man. She wasn’t exactly concerned as much as apprehensive. “So where’s it going? Serious? Steady thing? Just sex?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do you feel about it?”

She was definitely not getting an honest answer to that. “Taking it slow. I like being around him. I’m trying to not get too attached, but I don’t know if staying detached is working.”

Aaron fussed, and Yvonne pulled him out of his chair. He rested his head on her shoulder. “You buy yourself the shoes and underpants?” she asked.

“Of course not. The shoes alone…” I pursed my lips. I didn’t like where she was going, and I didn’t have the heart to slap her the way I’d slapped Darren.

“I’m gonna ask you something because I like you. You can get your panties in a twist if you want, but you shouldn’t.”

“I may not answer.”

“He abusing you?”

“No!” I cried. “God, Yvonne, what part of what I said makes you think abuse?”

My reaction was offense, not for myself, but for Jonathan. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know us together.

But I couldn’t hold her to my level of loyalty. The twisting web of rage in my chest surprised me, though. Was the rage caused by her implication that Jonathan was an abuser? Or because I’d just found out he had a reputation?

Yvonne, who couldn’t see my neurons pulsing like machine gun fire, continued, “Kink is often a disguise for abuse and exploitation. I know it’s not that way yet. But if you get uncomfortable, will you call me?”

“No.” Not only was I not calling her, I wasn’t calling anyone. What Jonathan and I did, and how we did it, was private. Having even one person know was making me very uncomfortable.

“Sure, you will. Look, I know how a nice guy can turn into an ass**le on the turn of a dime, so all I’m saying is…” Her expression changed, as if what she wanted to say fell dead on her lips. She smiled instead. “I’m totally jealous. If he’s not abusing you, I might have faith in men again. That’s all.”

I exhaled a long, lung-emptying breath, as if I’d been holding it. I’d been unfair and insensitive. Yvonne’s history included a brother who fondled her and a boyfriend who locked her and their son in the house when he went to work. Of course she was attuned to possible abuse when I came along with bags of expensive clothing and a man who tied me up and spanked me for our pleasure. I pushed my cake toward her. “Eat, please. I have to stay skinny if I want to look good in this shit.”

CHAPTER 4.

JONATHAN

Long Beach was the absolute last place I wanted to be. The sky was the color of a handful of quarters. Without the sun to warm the air, the wind off the ocean hit cold and hard.

I had to be quick. I had a meeting with the deputy mayor in Century City in two hours, and then I had a date. A real date, where I’d wear a suit and behave myself.

At the Port of Long Beach, the Faulkner Coalmine was set to be cataloged, packed up, and sent to a warehouse in Europe, never to be seen again. I’d bought it the night of the Eclipse show. Eclipse shows only ran a week, so the minute the show closed down, my dealer, Hank, had a team in to collect it. Wainwright was surprised, but the check cleared nicely. He showed up at the closing to chat up my dealer, trying to sell more work. Fucking hustler. Obvious how he got her into bed.

Lil pulled up to the warehouse. Hank strode out to meet me. He was six feet tall, early sixties, bald, and wearing a four-thousand-dollar suit. He could tell shit from chocolate, negotiate a deal, take up space at an auction, and determine true worth from hype. More importantly, he understood my taste, which was why he’d been so surprised I wanted that piece.

“Jaydee.” He held out his hand. He had on a few big rings and a clunky watch, and his voice was thick with New York. He looked more like a truck driver than an art dealer, and that’s why I liked him. He snuck up on people with his knowledge and erudition, and by the time artists and agents realized they weren’t dealing with a rube, I had what I wanted.

“Hank.” We walked through the warehouse. My companies used the space as a logistics hold for construction materials and imported food. The offices for the people routing it all over the world were inside the warehouse, too.

Hank waved his arm dismissively. “What the f**k did you buy this piece of shit for? You want something to spend your money on, I got a girl with a studio in Compton. Tears in your eyes. Tears.”

“You called me. And not to question my taste, I presume.”

“I question your taste every day.”

“Really? Never would have guessed.”

Hank stopped outside a conference room door. “It’s good work, no question. But I don’t know how much of it you saw before you went overpaying while I wasn’t looking.”

“Almost none.”

“Fan-freaking-tastic. Can we not do that any more?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Fine,” Hank said, obviously annoyed. “Everything’s here. All the documentation, the sketches, inspiration, all the history and work that went into the installation. That’s what you bought, sight unseen.”